


Ghosts of Blacklake (A Journey of Phantasia-story)

by OrgroWritingStuff



Series: Journey of Phantasia [1]
Category: Journey of Phantasia
Genre: Dark Magic, Fantasy, Folklore, Gen, High Fantasy, Historical Fantasy, Horror, Mentions of Myth & Folklore, OrgroArts, OrgroWritingStuff, Original Character - Freeform, Original Story - Freeform, Undead, swamps, sword and sorcery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21838942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrgroWritingStuff/pseuds/OrgroWritingStuff
Summary: A vile, black lake is causing people in the eastern moor-lands of Phantasia to mysteriously disappear. It's up to one child-thief to figure out why and what is exactly happening, and how to stop it.
Relationships: Ayan Dragonsbane & Bayo
Series: Journey of Phantasia [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573519





	Ghosts of Blacklake (A Journey of Phantasia-story)

**Author's Note:**

> For pure disclosure, this is one part of a collection of stories that I plan to eventually compile into one big compilation. The series in question, Journey of Phantasia -or JoP for short-, has been in the making by me since I was around 12. My aim is to make them readable separately, while still making sense multiple-part-wise. Any resemblance to other names, characters, places, occurrences etc cetera, be it real, fictional or otherwise, is entirely coincidental. Journey of Phantasia is one of my greatest wishes that I work hard for and hope to come true, to get out there and get more renown as a writer.  
> I really hope this will prove successful.

Ayan's journey after his release from the cold, unwelcoming dungeons guided him through the moored regions of north-east Phantasia. The ground was soft and mossy with plucks of heather-grass growing in small bunches, wild reeds and blackberry-bushes growing on and around what was once a path and shallow puddles of mud, wherein the hooves of Ayan's horse Bayo continuously sounded tsumd-tsumd-tsumd, with nobody around to hear it but Ayan and the horse himself. The air was pale and damp. White-grey clouds hung lazily over the sun. All of the sky seemed to be an array of clouds. The ground, the sky and the overall mood of this place gave it an empty, forgotten ambience.

Ayan searched for a place to sleep, a place that was better than a dirty bale of hay against cold and grimy stone, tied up in chains. Ayan's wrists felt a tingle over them for having lost the feeling of their shackles. A relief, first and foremost, but also cold. There were scars on the wrists.

"No place to spend the night." Sighed Ayan to Bayo, who sluggishly kept walking forwards through the moors. Tsumd-tsumd-tsumd, went his hooves through the puddles, with no other noise around. Not even one bird sounded here, and not even the wind blew. This place was as if abandoned by even the elements themselves.

Nevertheless Ayan felt a strange presence of... Something. Scattered around these moors were long, wooden poles, sticking out of the ground, with no indication how or why. Ayan wondered what these were, especially in a place like this. Did they have some religious meaning, perhaps? Or were they a beacon towards civilisation? That would be grand. The thought of it made him smile.

Eventually the two came to a large, open field in the moorland, surrounded by thin trees. Not a familiar sight, but a welcome one nonetheless. The trees bore no fruit but they did provide shelter, with a thin roof of leaves growing above the tree like from the cup of a goblet. It seemed that these were used for shelter often, judging by what seemed to be the remains of a campfire underneath one of the thin trees. The fire still smouldered, which Ayan found a little odd. He wondered where the occupant went, but no trace was to be found.

There was one thing even more off-putting for him, one very significant thing that made him doubt if he should even be here at all. And that thing was the large, still, pure-black lake, in the middle of the field.

But Ayan was tired after his long trek, and so was Bayo. Against keener judgement and a lack of any legit place to stay otherwise, Ayan made their camp against the tree with the fire underneath. He tied Bayo to the tree, and Bayo went on to graze the moss and grass, as far away from the black lake as he could. "Good idea, boy." Ayan laughed, as he tried to re-kindle the smouldering fire with some tinder-fungus he had left. He could roast some food on it later.

A blanket lay lonely against the tree. It was a sturdy, thick blanket, perfect for keeping out the cold damp weather in the moorlands. It looked abandoned the way it was. It even had a marking of the previous owner on it, still with the lines and curves of how they'd sat down here. Ayan only had to look at the blanket and then at the night-turning sky to know what he had to do with the thing next.

"Thank you, whoever left this behind. Now I'm not cold anymore." He wrapped himself in the itchy thick thing while he got busy roasting some raw food on a stick, above the glowing ash of the fire. Bayo slept, standing, as most horses do. The night above the moors fell quicker than expected. From the distance, a lonely owl cried out. A murder of crows began cawing not to far away from there. Ayan enjoyed those sounds. He grew up with them, and they made the night feel far less empty. He leaned his back against the tree and ate his warm food while the remains of his fire danced in the darkening night. He breathed in the cold air and the rusty smell of burning wood. No stars were out, as the clouds were above them still. Unwelcoming and cold as this place was, it still beat the cramped smelly dungeons he was still stuck in barely two days ago. Ayan felt alive.

He smiled during his entire meal, feeling very satisfied, and soon after nuzzled himself to sleep. It was a sleep that did not last long. The night was silent once more, and after a short while a filthy, muddy, simmering stench drifted through the air, filling it, and it burned Ayan's nostrils so much that he jolted back up, eyes watering. The ground rumbled. Ayan scrambled himself up, wiped the tears out of his eyes and hastily grabbed all his stuff together. His sword, his crossbow, his knapsack, if he could grab the fire he would do that too. This horrid stench awakened a feral scavenge-and-flee response in him. The fire hadn't even fully gone out yet, he managed to notice. Quivering from the cold, Ayan tied the two ends of the blanket together, and hung the thing over his shoulders. He unsheathed his rusty, trusty sword. Bayo had awoken from the rumbling, and trampled the grounds with anticipation and fear. He fumed and snorted and whinnied. Something on these grounds was freaking him out. "Ssssssshhh." Ayan hushed, trying to calm down his horse. But when he turned back around, he saw exactly what was scaring his horse so much.

From the distant black lake, slowly, rumbling and creaking, an entire village appeared. A village built on poles. Rotting, broken poles, barely supporting the rotting, broken houses they stood under. The entire thing arose from the waters as if it was nothing, and the black-as-coal waters bubbled and brewed and splattered apart on the poles and the buildings. But that was far from all that happened.

From the slime on the floor of the village on poles, people appeared. They just crawled upwards, from nothing except the black tar-like substance spread out like marmite with rotted clumps. But not even their appearance seemed to be anything people-like. They weren't people. Not any longer. From their many slimy throats sounded a a low, blear bellow, and many white eyes stared lifelessly at the world, without real, conscious vision. They were undead. Ayan softly stepped back, trying not to alarm them. He shivered over his entire body despite the blanket he now clenched against himself with one hand. Something warm slowly streamed down his legs. Bayo reared against his restraints and whinnied louder than ever. Ayan's gaze remained on the dark, rotted village, however. With gaping mouth he looked at the undead people.

One of the villagers stood out though, even more so than an undead already would. Where the other undead were hunched-over, this one stood up straight. The figure had his arms tightly to his body, and seemed to fully be in control of his movements, whereas the other undead were but a slumping, groaning mess. This one was silent. Dead- silent. He had a wicked grin of rotted black teeth cracked on his leathery dripping skin, and pale-white long hair that seemed to stick to his face and what-once-were his clothes, a long robe. And his eyes... They shone red as bloodied daggers in the light of the pale moon. The eyes seemed to be stabbing straight into his soul, filling him with fear. With insecurity. With the looming silence of death. Ayan's legs started shaking, as if he wanted to leave but the red eyes, burning like the fires of the underworld, tried keeping him in place. The black water of the lake bubbled and splashed against the rotting wood, and a large splotch of it blocked Ayan's sight of the red eyes. Ayan violently shook his head to get those deadly eyes out of him, threw his stuff on Bayo, jumped into the saddle, cut loose the reins because untying it would be wasting precious seconds of life, and got out of here on his panicking horse as fast as they could. Southwards, the opposite way they came. He cried out of pure fear, and sweated and heaved and if he could scream now, he most definitely would. But the fear had robbed him of his voice. Far behind him, the undead of the black lake moaned. And among them, very faintly, he heard the harrowing, heartrending laugh of who Ayan only could figure was the undead with the long white hair and those red, deadly eyes... The night was long, still without stars.

Void of any breath Ayan and Bayo arrived at a small, dingy tavern built on a mound. He quickly stabled Bayo, who was still jumpy from the whole experience, and then Ayan stumbled to the entrance and banged on the door as loud as he could, with the front of his boots stuck in the dark sand, leaning on one hand and banging the door with the other. When it finally opened, he fell to his knees, crying. The bar-maid who'd opened the door only seemed very surprised.

A while passed before Ayan came to his senses, with a warm cup of milk clenched in his hands. It almost cracked by how much he clenched his hands around it. He had stopped weeping but stared straight ahead with a blank look, red around the eyes. He nestled himself against the wall where his chair stood, the blanket still tight around his shoulders.

The tavern looked decent, although it had no windows. The one source of light it had was one fireplace with a kettle in the middle. The bar was at the left-end, with the owner, the woman who'd opened the door, behind it, who was cleaning glasses. Two waitresses were present, refilling drinks. The tavern did not look that cosy, but that's because the area didn't let it. There weren't many resources to tidy or decorate this place to begin with, safe for a few heads of animals, mainly boars and deer, that were hung with a wooden plaque on the wall. Not many people were in this tavern, this place was quite desolate, after all. Those that were present could be counted on two hands. They looked rough around the edges, shifty and brooding men huddled around creaking tables playing dice and cards, drinking-horns half-rolling off the tables or hanging by their belts. Mercenaries, deserted soldiers, bounty-hunters, gatekeepers that were off-duty and hangmen. A handful of others, seemingly farmers, herders and hunters were playing cards and swapping coins around a set of two tables that they shoved together, to make one big table. There was one man, he looked old, with a rag band over one eye, sitting at another table against a wall, very near to where Ayan sat, staring, with the warm milk still in his hand.

"Got spooked, boy?" The old man asked. His voice was coarse, like a crow. He chewed on a small stick in the corner of his mouth. He looked as wrinkly and leathery as the undead Ayan had seen earlier that night, but luckily more alive. Ayan darted up at the sudden noise, his milk nearly splattered all over the table. He looked at the old man, calmed down, nodded, and took a sip of the remaining milk. It was still warm, luckily.

"Yes, this ain't an easy place by any stretch, boy! The nights here are dangerous, ha!" Ayan nodded again. "You can say that again." The old man let out a cackle. "Southern boy! I hear it in your tone! 'Thought they could handle these sort of lands!" Ayan laughed, albeit soft and weakly. "The land is not the problem, and neither is the night. I've suffered worse." He laughed a little harder, and the old man laughed along. Ayan took another gulp of the milk.

"Then what'd be that bad, that a rookie-ranger like you falls in here crying in the night? Wolves? Trolls?" The old man laughed. Ayan shook his head. Luckily, he'd gotten new pants. The old ones were starting to scrape against his legs like sandpaper. The new ones were made of a bear-pelt, while the old pants were being washed by the tavern-staff. "No, not that."

He cleared his throat after taking one more gulp of milk. "Both of those I've seen, and fought. No, outside, outside and out there I saw undead." Silence. Deathly silence. "I've seen a village rise up from a pitch-black lake."

The old man nearly choked in the stick that he had frantically been chewing on, after which he spat the stick out onto the rough wooden floor. Ayan looked on in shock. "You... You what?!" The old man exclaimed. Others in the tavern, mostly the ruffians at the tables, looked at the scene playing out with big grins on their grimy faces. Naturally, they didn't believe a word the boy with the curled hair and the black ashy locks had said.

"HAH! That's bull! If that boy has REALLY seen ghosts, then I'm a chicken!" Said a burly-looking man, and quite a hairy one at that. His hair was buzz-cut short, and he had a dark beard covering his cheeks and lower face. He was dressed in a dark doublet, and a chain-mail vest, both of which were drenched in the beers the man drank before. The old man was still catching his breath, one wrinkly hand clenching the side of the table.

Ayan frowned. He knew what he'd seen. "Then you better start laying an egg, I saw what I saw! An entire, rotting village rising from a black lake!" He put his milk on the table and wobbly stood up, using his hands to power his words. "There were undead coming out of the slime and the rotting wood and there was ONE of them that had such red, terrifying eyes that...-"

The burly man in the beer-drenched doublet did not have any of this. He stood up, effortlessly shoved his heavy wooden chair to the side, and stomped over to Ayan to give the boy a piece of his mind... And his fist. But...

"WAIT!" The old man shouted. He jumped between the two, holding the wrinkly hand out in front of him, to stop the burly man. "Stop it for a moment, Chase." and Chase, in turn, growled and stood still.

"The boy's right. This one-" And the old man pointed at Chase. "This one's from further-up, north-east. The plains near the swamps, you know? Only here for a week. He doesn't know what lurks in these parts!" Ayan gulped nervously. He stood up as well, else he'd feel so small.

"So what?" Scoffed Chase, crossing his arms, thick as tree-trunks. "I've fought dozens of odd things already. I've grabbed ice-bears with my bare hands and pinned them onto trees with my swords. He pointed at the two rough-looking swords hanging from his belt. They fit him and his temperament perfectly. "I could handle some dead people easily, regardless of if they came out of some 'haunted' dumb lake or not!" Neither the old man nor Ayan did respond.

The burly Chase braced himself by breathing deep, un-crossing his shoulders. "I'll even prove it to you, spineless dogs that you are! I'll find it tonight, and come morning I'll be back here! MEN!" And several more unkept ruffians stood up from their game of cards and dice, and followed Chase, but not before Chase himself gave Ayan a hard bump on his shoulder as he passed him. The long line of about nine people went out of the door, laughing, into the night, towards the black lake in the moors. Ayan looked after them, rubbing his pained shoulder.

"Good riddance. Glad those dung-piles are gone, at least." The old man mumbled. Ayan felt an uneasiness creep up within him. Those men didn't believe him one bit. He knew what he'd seen, but what if it was merely a wisp? A nightmare? Something that wasn't even there to begin with? Or the opposite, something that used to be there, but in a far-off forgotten past? He thought of his own home, the Village of Herder's Hill, burned to the ground and lying forgotten in ashes as it was. That was less than a year ago. A crop sprung in his throat and small tears trickled down his cheeks, not much helped by the painful bump against his shoulder. He'd rather not think about that.

The old man poked Ayan out of his thoughts. He had sat down at the same table once again. "Boy, I can tell you with all certainty in my heart, that what you've seen is true. Youngling..." And the old man leaned forward. Ayan sat back down, and then he spotted the blanket wrapped around the old man's shoulders. It had the same colour, the same look, the same thick prickly texture as the one he was wearing. Now he saw, and he realised that it wasn't even a blanket to begin with. It was a cloak. He couldn't have seen that in the dark, and had forgotten to put it back near the campfire. "Oh, faun." He cursed under his breath. The thing felt clammy around his shoulders.

Ayan shivered as the man kept talking. "I knew it from your explanation, boy. I... Recognise that cloak." The tone and the face of the old man turned sad. The inn was a lot less rowdy now, the rest of the people now silently listening to the poor old man. "I see. You're wearing it right now." Ayan nodded as he rubbed a corner of the thick cloak between his fingers. The old man nodded.

"There was a village there, back when I was about as much of a young rookie-ranger as you are now, built on poles exactly where that black lake is now." He sighed, and took a deep breath to keep talking. Ayan interrupted to ask: "Was the lake black, even back then?" And the old man shook his head. "I'll get to that. Now, after a few years of that village being made, a monk moved in." The gulp of milk Ayan took tasted sour after that. He did not like monks. "But that monk, they hadn't realised, prayed to dark, mad gods."

'Aha,' Ayan thought. 'There we go. That's why the milk went sour.' He quietly put the cup down, and the old man talked on. "The village discovered what he'd done, and they strangled the monk, and threw him in the lake. He didn't float, just sunk straight down!" Ayan leaned forward, mortified, but curious. "But witches float, don't they? They float in water!" He knew, for one, his wizard-friend Albedo could float in water. He'd have to ask him about that later. The old man nodded. "Witches float, but monks don't. Even ones that use magic!" - "Even dark magic?" - "ESPECIALLY dark magic!" A shiver went through the crowd, that had softly, as not to miss anything, shuffled their seats to listen to Ayan and the old man.

"What happened then?" Ayan asked. His milk was still sour. "He came back." The old man just said. "He crawled and clawed his way back up, and when he did, the water where he swam turned to the waters of the underworld... The waters of death." The old man stopped to lean forward a bit. "He was already dead, but his twisted gods brought him back. The very moment he set foot in the village, it, and everyone in it, began rotting and sinking into the black waters. It only comes back up at night, because that's when the monk resurfaced as well. Blacklake is the name that people gave it... It fits." The old man took another pause, holding one end of the cloak tight in his wrinkly hand. "That was decades ago now... But ever since that night people have been avoiding Blacklake, and the moors in general. Ayan stared wide-eyed at the old man. He wanted more. More answers, more history, more ways to stop that monk. "The people... Did they... All of them..." Was all he could get out. The old man shook his head. Now his face was grim. "Most couldn't get away in the panic, but some did... You're looking at one of them now."

"Well, that explains the cloak, at least." Ayan lightly joked. And to his surprise, the old man laughed. He didn't have that many teeth left. "Yes, it does. Me and a couple of village-boys managed to flee the village and the cold, deadly waters, and as the years went on we wanted to find out how we could put a stop to that monk, and bring Blacklake back as how it once was. We formed an alliance of rangers, who kept the moors safe. But, as you see, neither me nor the rangers were what they used to be."

Ayan didn't understand what the old man meant by that last sentence. "What do you mean? Where's the other rangers?" The old man was silent. For a while. "Age has not been kind to us. At least half of us rangers were already laid to rest. And..." Ayan cocked his head. He didn't want to make this man more saddened than he already was. "You... Don't have to tell it if you don't want to, mister." The old man smiled to him, albeit grimly, with what few teeth he had left. "You've got manners too. A fine boy, you are." He cleared his throat. Ayan weakly smiled back. "There is six of us left... Last I know they were scouting the roads, but it seems... That a few days back, Kruupke went off alone. " The fact that the cloak he wore now bore the name of someone made it slightly less comfortable. Was he wearing the mantle of a dead one? He looked at the sword on his belt and felt the crossbow weigh heavy on his back. One more to the pile... Another stray thought of Herder's Hill came to his mind and he sighed heavily. The old man stopped Ayan, when he took the thing off of his shoulders in an attempt to give it back.

"I don't want to wear the mantle of a dead-man." He simply said. But the old man grinned. "Kruupke won't be down that easily. He had a camp there, near the lake, right?" And Ayan nodded. "The fire was barely out." The old man grinned even wider, and now Ayan felt more comfortable. "Then he was probably off for a late-night hunt, or maybe a piss, or something else. Give it back to him then. Besides..." He eyed Ayan, top to bottom. "It fits you. You look like Kruupke a lot, on second glance. Well, a younger one, that is..." Ayan giggled and the old man laughed along. He now had something he had to do. "Then I'll go back to Blacklake tomorrow, and give the cloak back to him then!"

"A mighty fine idea, rookie-ranger! I'll call up the mates I have left, and together we can figure out how to get rid of that darn monk!" The old man said, invigorated, as if all the life from his younger years came rushing back into him in a mere moment. "Together." Ayan nodded. "That monk needs a big sword through the mouth, and those villagers deserve peace."

The old man laughed heartily at that, and although Ayan was still scared, neither of them seemed sad. "You've got his courage, too! Boy, boy, the new generation doesn't let you down, that's for sure!" The two shook hands, sealing the deal. The folk in the tavern roared up, some clapping, some volunteering to go with them tomorrow, to give that monk a piece of their mind. Ayan's now-cold milk did not smell sour any longer. "Before anything, boy, let me give you one bit of advice." The old man said. He cleared his throat once more, and Ayan perched his pointed ears to listen through the roaring crowd.

"Do not stand in the water."

That night Ayan spent sleeping safely in the tavern, with unrestful dreams where time and time again the preening red eyes of the monk with the white hair scared him stiff. A flash of the rotting village in the black lake, overlapped by the fires of old Herder's Hill caused Ayan to jolt upright in his bed, bathing in the sweat of fear. Nevertheless, he would have to do what he promised he would. Sunlight shone yellow-white through the windows while Ayan dressed himself, with the green cloak wrapped firm 'round his shoulders. He knew what he had to do.

He felt a gush of bravery and determination as he peeked out the window. People were outside. Many of them. Over the ven-land, and through the morning fog that hung over these lands. Ayan didn't know what they were doing. He kept looking. Further into the crowd of people he saw the old man from yesterday. He trudged along with them, fearless and without regret. Just when Ayan wanted to open the windows to ask what was going on the old man turned to him and winked, sticking his thumb into the air. Through a glimpse of clear air between the fog Ayan saw that the people were all wearing green cloaks, like the one he wore. That filled him with hope. The old man had a plan, and he'd have one too.

Knocking on the door. Without thinking twice Ayan drew his dagger, before having even been bothered to put on his pants, and yanked open the door. It was the owner of the tavern, who stared at him in shock. She had cleaned his old pants.

After a fast, hearty breakfast and paying for the night, and blessings of luck, Ayan, now having put on his pants, rode his trusty horse Bayo through the sour-seeming fog. And again, like yesterday, Bayo's hooves sopped and sunk in the deeper parts of the moorlands. Ayan followed the trail of the cloaked people at a distance until the black lake doomed up from amidst the empty moors.

On a safe distance from both the lake and the cloaked people, Ayan left Bayo to graze, while he himself went forward. There it was. Silent, pale, and radiating with doom. Ayan snuck between the ring of trees, one hand on the hilt of his sword. Scattered around were weapons, armour-pieces, doublets and shields. Some of the scattered stuff looked familiar to him. He remembered them from last night, from the men that laughed at him. No other trace of them was left, anywhere. The cloaked people where nowhere to be found either.

"Strange," Ayan thought. "They were coming this way." He didn't dare comment on the wayward men, fearing the worst. "Maybe if I wait until the evening, maybe then the old man will be here..." He wasn't even done thinking before the earth rumbled violently, with such a force that Ayan nearly lost his balance were it not for this lonely tree in the ring to keep him standing. Then, silence. "Or maybe," Ayan continued thinking. "Maybe it'll be best to stay here."

Ayan waited and waited near the lake. It was afternoon by now. He spent that time scouring the landscape and eating whatever food he had with him. Not once did he see someone in a cloak just like his. "They're probably hidden good." He thought, and snickered to himself. He came past the poles that he'd ridden past yesterday. The black lake was still at a visible distance. There was a deathly silence all around, and not even the mice dared skitter, when Ayan gently slid his hand against one of the poles. He fell, for real this time, for the ground rumbled dangerously a second time that day. Ayan landed face-first in the mud. As quickly as he could, he scrambled upright. There, in the distance, the village once again rose from the lake.

"But... It's still day! Something's not right..." Ayan hissed to himself. He lowered himself to the ground besides the muddy pool to not be seen. Mud stuck to his face and his hair, but he wouldn't take risks now. The monk's red eyes weren't things he looked forward to seeing. He lay there in wait until something appeared from the fog in the distance. Or someone, rather. No... Multiple someone's.

The people donned in cloaks! They were here! "Where'd they even come from?" Ayan wondered. They came from all sides, slowly approaching the black lake with silver and with torches. Some, Ayan saw, came from very close by him as well. They stepped valiantly and firm as one, with only a mutter. Ayan neared the village as well, but crawling through the grass and the moss like a lizard. The cloaked people surrounded the lake, which seemed to be empty and still covered in tar, and they spoke things amongst themselves which Ayan couldn't comprehend too well. A spell, maybe? The thick high grass of the swampy moorlands tickled in his face and mud-water stung against his scars, but still he crawled on. The cloaked people were close, only a few steps more and... A beetle crawled over his hand, and it prickled, but Ayan kept crawling. The words grew louder, but Ayan could still not comprehend their tongue.

It was the language of the dead.

From the tar of the village, the dead rose once more, in the pale light of the late afternoon. And there he was too, the monk with the white hair and those blood-red, glowing eyes. Ayan shivered with thrill through his entire body. He wasn't noticed, the people in their cloaks were. But still he was frightened, frightened to death almost, and he wanted to crawl away and run. But then...

The people in the circle seized their chant. A shock went through them, as a ripple through a sea. The lights of their torches glowed from red to pure sky-blue. Slowly, the white-haired monk opened his mouth, he screeched out the same deathly language while the waters of the blacklake stormed and splattered against the rotting wood and the grass. As if awakened from a bad dream, then, a spark of movement among the cloaked people. One of them stepped forward. It was the old man! Ayan saw him there, and he gasped in surprise. A small centipede nearly crawled into his mouth, but he wiped it away. "He's here now... But what will he do?" Ayan wondered.

He didn't have to wait long for an answer. The old man reached out for something hidden behind his cloak. Ayan couldn't see what it was, but it seemed to definitely bear an effect on the monk. Once he grabbed it, and held it forward, the monk stared wide-eyed at whatever it was, then shrieked and shuddered before raising his right hand in front of his eyes. The monk was trying to break vision from the damned thing! Slowly, the undead slumped through the muck towards the old man and his cloaked companions. And the shriek of the monk slowly turned into a high, wicked laugh...

The old man held the thing, a white-metal sigil it seemed, forward to him still, standing at the edge of the lake. He held his distance from the undead, who simply let themselves fall in the water like lemmings, and crawl back out to face the cloaked people. The old man laughed. "Sending your minions instead of battling like a man, hm?" His laugh quickly faded when one of the undead approached him, and stood still. This one seemed to be very alive in posture, but the look in his eyes was dull, his flesh dried and decaying... This one was a recent victim. And the old man recognised the poor, poor soul.

"Kruupke... Is that- No... Gods, no." The old man said, defeated.

Kruupke, or what was left of him, had something yet still very human in him, as he stepped right in front of the man without being hurt, hit, or hindered. The old man couldn't bring himself to do it. Kruupke put a horribly rotten hand on the old man's shoulder, who only sobbed. Ayan could only watch and listen in horror as the sobbing slowly began sounding more rough, more guttural. Less alive. The old man's skin turned a dark-tinted blue, the colour of a ven-corpse, and his stance slowly grew more crooked than an old man's back already could be. When the man turned back to face the circle, Ayan saw the pale white eyes.

He too was now one of the undead.

Ayan needed to do something. Stand up, yell out for them to fight, or for the monk to stop, but he was so upset over the old man and the dead stench of rot stung in his nostrils so much that he almost vomited. Something awakened within the circle. Action.

When he re-opened his eyes and slowly woke from his sickly blur Ayan was still lying in the same cold wet place in the ven. Muffled voices filled his ears. Yelling. Weapons clashing. The pounding of boots going tsumd-tsumd-tsumd in the muck and the wet grass.

"How long have I been lying here?" He asked himself, as he crawled back up and shook the blur fully out of his head while he pulled his sword out of his sheath. Further away, the people of the circle were in a fight for their life with the undead of the lake. Each of them wore the same green mantle that was around Ayan's shoulders, some covered with more disgusting ooze than others. The red-eyed monk floated above the roofs of the rotted village. He cursed and screamed and waved wildly with his arms to command the undead below. Nobody could hit him like this. He was too high up to be hit, and the undead formed a barrier so the people of the circle could not reach him. They had no ranged weapons at their current disposal, and they loudly cursed that out in frustration.

Luckily, Ayan did have one.

He sneaked off to where the trees were, far closer to the village and the people of the circle, and grabbed his crossbow while sheathing his sword. He loaded, aimed and shot out a bolt with a small iron head, with one eye closed. Breathe in. Release. Breathe out.

One of the eyes of the monk shut closed. A loud and deep roar thundered through the dark, misty ven-lands. Ayan grinned. He helped! He actually hit him! He dropped himself behind the tree and hid, re-loading his trusty crossbow. He hadn't seen the old man in the mass of fighting men and undead.

The monk tumbled to the ground and landed hard on the floorboards of the dark rotting wood from being hit right in his eye. The people of the circle, who were closer to the lake as this happened, laughed hard. The monk could be hit! This fired up their spirits and soon they were driving off the undead harder than ever before. Now Ayan crept forward, one hand on the handle of his sword and his other gripped tight around his crossbow. This thing was not invincible! From this close he could see that every time one of the undead fell, the water of the black lake flowed out of their wounds until it filled up said wound, or closed the gap between a chopped-off arm, leg, or head. They would lie on the ground for a while more before standing back up and slowly resuming their fight. The people of the circle did everything in their power to not get touched by their dead hands, yet here and there, some people did succumb to the rotting embrace of death. But the cloaked people of the circle did not falter. They pushed the undead back into the water to get rid of them and fought their way up over the rickety bridge to the wooden floorboards of the village of Blacklake. The monk had still not gotten up yet.

Ayan knew that now, the time was right. The moment he first stepped foot on the floorboards, the ground trembled. He knew what that meant, and he feared the worst. The water splashed and bubbled and Ayan quickly ducked backwards, landing on the wet grass. The village sunk back into the waters. "NO!" Ayan screamed. The little bridge separating the village from the grass was the first to sink. The cloaked people had nowhere to go. They ran around in wild panic. Some tried jumping to the other side, but only landed in the water and sank immediately. They were caught like rats in a deadly black trap. They went under along with the village in the black lake. The last thing Ayan could see in-between the panicked mass of darkness was one blood-red eye, staring at him with immense hate. Ayan was too late. "NO, GÖRNE-DAMN IT! NO!"

He would wait until the night fell. But first, he'd have to eat. Ayan slowly rode back to the tavern on Bayo, who had been patiently waiting for him. Ayan's face was grim and serious -as serious as someone fourteen winters young could be- as he was dead-set on getting revenge on that monk. He barely answered the questions the tavern's patrons asked him, and when he did they were short, three-word answers. He ate and he cleaned himself, and rode back to the lake on Bayo's back afterwards.

The weather was dry, but cloudy, and the same deck of clouds filled the air as the night before. A darkness loomed over the ven-lands, the pressure in the air alone giving a feeling like the place was wrapped in a cold robe of trepidation. Crickets sung a song of victory for Ayan, which fired his need for revenge up even more. The dark-green cloak was wrapped tight around his shoulders as he stared at the approaching lake. He tied Bayo to where he had put him before and said him goodbyes, then left off on foot. The fast pace of his step aligned almost with the beating of his heart, excited and enraged. There it was again. The cursed village of Blacklake hidden under the titular black lake. "I'll avenge the old man, and his friend. I'll avenge those cloaked people who didn't stand a chance. That monk will go down tonight, I promise."

Calm and at ease, that was how Blacklake looked as it were now. A still, flat surface of pure black water. A calm before the storm, a peace after death. That was how it looked, and how it felt for Ayan, as he stood motionless in front of the black lake. Not even the wind moved. And even the crickets had ceased their songs. They were afraid.

The ground trembled and shook, but Ayan stood firm with his boots in the mud. This time, he did not fall. He would not. His unsheathed sword was in one hand, and his crossbow in the other. Not a grain of fear was now rooted in his heart. He only felt determination. He was ready.

There, the village slowly rose up from the bubbling, brewing black waters, and up in the sky the first drops of rain began falling down. Ayan stood firmer, and gnashed his teeth. "Bring it."

The dark waters splashed around like waves, as if they were vipers striking prey. They prey being Ayan, stepping back to avoid being pulled and dragged under in the lake's deadly embrace. The water was aided by the wind, howling and pulling on his cloak and his clothes and his hair, to haul him under so he would stop his attack on the monk. At least, that why he thought they did it. If anyone were to blame for the terrible things that had happened so far, it was the monk.

Regardless, Ayan stood, and kept standing, while the rotted village arose once again from the grime and the muck that dripped off of it, and soon after, the villagers arose as well. But not only the villagers.

There were the rangers, and the old man. Ayan's heart felt heavy when he looked at them, trapped under the undead curse. Regardless, Ayan climbed onto the soppy wood and, while trying to stay balanced and not slip, hid behind one of the grimy and slimy houses of the village of Blacklake. It was one of the only houses that still resembled a house most, compared to some of them only being the wooden poles of the framing. Everything here had the horrible dark-green tint of wet rotted wood. Ayan didn't dare to peek past the corner yet. His breathing was heavy despite him trying to keep it in, and the adrenaline racing through him caused him to break out in a cold sweat. His heart pounded in his chest as he anticipated what he would do next. What would he do next? He hadn't planned that out yet.

The undead had not yet noticed him, it seemed. He heard them grumble and moan, and scrape across the wooden flooring. He heard the rough laughter of the monk, with a tone of pain intertwined. "Of course," Ayan thought, stifling a laugh. "I hit him before. If they can feel, they can feel pain. And if they can feel pain, they're probably able to die... Probably." The mantle felt ice-cold and clammy around his shoulders as he very, very carefully peeked past the corner of the house.

There he was, still fierce and aggressive as ever... The monk of the black lake. He had taken the arrow and thrown it out of his eye already. Ayan couldn't see where it was, if it was even here at all. "Too bad. I'll probably have to fill that hole again." He chuckled and slammed his mouth shut immediately after as dozens of glazed white eyes looked his way. His fear returned. Should he just have left when he had the chance? Whistle for Bayo, and never return here?

"No. Not today."

Ayan stepped away from the house, now standing in full view. He promised to save these people, and Blacklake as a whole, and he would hold true to that, even at the cost of his life.

He took a big breath of air. It wasn't fresh by any stretch, but he needed it. Knees bent, sword and crossbow clenched in his hand, teeth gnashing and all the while growling like a wild animal he looked at the monk, bright valiant green meeting deep, hate-filled red.

"Monk! You'll pay for what you did! No longer will you bother these people! I'll put an end to you myself!" The undead did not move. They would not move, safe for the monk's word. And the white-haired monk stared in bewilderment at the angry boy, with one eye wide- and one eye half-open. Black, hissing slime dripped out of his broken eye. Then, he grinned.

"Brave..." He spoke. Finally. The monk actually spoke. "Awfully brave." He floated a little, and took small steps from left to right in mid-air. "What a shame. You could've served me well. Me and my gods."

Ayan shivered, but his fear had been smothered solely by the flames of his temper. "Get lost with your gods! You are going down!" The monk frowned at that, seemingly displeased. He stood still, beholding the boy while his bony hand tapped the corner of his dried-up mouth.

"So it shall be... Kill him. Djeorog!"

The word of command moved the horde, and they moved towards Ayan who was surrounded quicker than he could fathom. The panic in his nerves dulled his senses. Now Ayan felt quite some pressure once again. He knew he could take these people down, they would just regrow themselves and wander once more. But he wondered if he should. Could the undead feel pain? The monk certainly did. And what would happen when the curse was lifted? Would their wounds grow back? Was this even possible? Ayan looked behind him, the questions in his mind clotting the way of clear thoughts. He saw the old man, and his cloaked comrades. Each of them still had their sigil. Their small, silver dagger, covered in grime. An idea began to click.

Step by step the undead horde of the 'Djeorog' shuffled closer and closer to Ayan. They groaned and they clawed at him, but Ayan remained mostly focussed on the silver daggers stuck to the dark-green cloaks. He waited.

Only right before one of the undead could strike out to him, when time felt like it went too painstakingly slow, when his legs nearly gave in and his heart almost sprung out, that is when Ayan ripped the little silver dagger loose from the cloak, and kicked the wandering corpse over. His sword was stuck back in the hilt, as Ayan kicked and hit everything around him with his boot, the butt of his crossbow, and the silver in his fist. "Fight, Görne-damnit! Fight against it!" He yelled out, and that, once again, seemed to awaken something. The same rush for action and an urge for battle just like when the old man first succumbed to the curse of the monk.

Their growls and wailing slowly turned to mumbling, dizzy and confused. Their form turned more lively. It was slow, and only a few began to change back at first, but there was a start. It began.

The mood returned, their lives reawakened. And as they gathered themselves Ayan kept pushing his way through those beyond the living line, as some behind did not hear his message. There were enough targets around him to hit, at least. And luckily it did not take long until the cloaked, old rangers, -as they were very old-looking- first gazed at the lone boy in awe, and soon even take up their arms, still dripping with grime, and join the fight themselves. The Djeorog, name for the undead servants under the monk, could barely resist the wave of life, and the monk noticed too late how those very servants were knocked back and kicked into the dark waters, until they at last came to him. He, feeling betrayed and looking the part, had fully expect Ayan to be one of them by this point, and had far from expected this.

Out of frustration, desperation, or agony, none could tell, but the monk wrapped his bony fingers around his head and shrieked, arching backwards. It sounded shrill, and cold, and its pitch seemed to reach even the mountains in the horizon until dying away. "Oh... Alright?" Ayan sighed. "That too, then?"

The ground dangerously rumbled once more. Some men lost their balance, including Ayan. He wildly waved his arms around before slipping, falling... And just barely being grabbed by the arm, by none other than the old man. "What did I tell ya, boy?" Ayan smiled, more from the adrenalines keeping him ready than actual joy. "No stepping in the water." He pulled the boy back onto the wooden floors as the rumbling suddenly stopped, with a hard knock. Something rose up from between the slits of the floor.

That was something that Ayan hadn't expected. Ghosts.

The ghosts of Blacklake.

Their half-husks of shapes emerged from the bubbling, pitch-black waters, shrieking with shrill voices that, like the ghosts, almost had a shape. A human one. Ayan gulped. They were everywhere, wafting their misty forms from here to there. But they did not pass through the cloaked ones themselves, or looked like they wanted to harm. All they did was flow like mist between them. Mist with shapes and faces.

The monk's leathery, rotted face seemed to get more frown-lines as he sneered silently at those beneath him. He raised his arms to the sky and screamed out once again, hands stretched and eye wide open. You could almost see the light shine through his hand, if you looked close enough. And in a flash, the ghosts stood still.

Most could not duck away from the horrible ripping feeling as the ghosts faded through them. "It's the souls of Blacklake!" Cried out one of them. "The monk has them under his command as well!" Before being hit, and falling to his knees as the ghost snatched the soul out his chest as it faded through him. He screamed before collapsing even further, now silent. People were screaming and falling left and right, a percussion of wood-thumps amidst a chorus of ghastly screams. Ayan furiously slashed at the ghosts, to no avail. His sword cut through air. "Then take away his command!" He yelled back as he hit the ground with his sword so hard, it got stuck. He stared at the little dagger in his hand, and lashed out with it. The ghost recoiled.

"The daggers!" He yelled out. "Hit them with the daggers! It's the silver they're afraid of! And so is he!" He ripped his sword out of the boarding with a hard tug, gripped it tight, and ran. "What're you up to now?!" The old man yelled after him. A ghost neared, and he had no silver dagger on him. Ayan had taken it! Thinking fast ,he snatched one from the cloak of a fallen comrade, holding it out just as the ghost wanted to phase through him. Instead, it screamed ethereally in pain, and vanished back into the dark waters. The old man once again looked at Ayan, wanting closure on his question. Ayan's climb up the slippery slopes began. "Saving this village, what else?!"

One particularly bulky Djeorog stood grumbling in front of him. The burly, bearded man. Chase. With more delight than he should have he kicked him out of the way, and used the fouled-up parts of a house's walls to kick his way into making a ladder's steps. Once actually on the roof of the house he spotted the monk. And the monk spotted him right back. "Fool." The monk sneered once again. "One mere arrow won't save you. Or your friends. Behold." He cracked his neck backwards, letting out a third ear-piercing scream that made the hairs on Ayan's neck stand up and his stomach ache. Clouds pillowed, and from them, a cruel, acidic rain dropped.

The cloaked ones below screamed. First the ghosts, and now this! This was horrible! The rain was tearing and biting at them, burning spots through their clothes and turning their skin a painful red... Safe for the monk. He laughed, the acid not even touching his skin. It seemed to fall around him, instead of on him, as if it avoided him deliberately.

The sharp rain stung, and bit quite hard. Even Ayan, who could be crushed under rocks and not feel a thing, felt his muscles tense and ache as the drops of acid rain landed on his arm, and his eyes teared up as the rains landed on his face. "An arrow won't, probably." He growled. The monk didn't even hear him, but he was too caught up in his acidic victory. "This might."

"His heart, sonny! Aim for his heart!" Shouted the old man from beneath, using his cloak as a flimsy shield against the rain. Ayan didn't have much choice than to comply. And not much time to spare either. He had one little silver dagger, and thus one chance, here on this slippery roof as the acid poured down unforgivingly.

"His heart it is."

Breathe in. Zoof. Breathe out.

The silver dagger hit. It burrowed deep into the heart of the monk. He stopped his laughter, too busy coughing and gasping to come up with any words. He looked at Ayan, nothing other than disbelief and pain on his face and his body. The screams of dozens of souls left through his throat. The sky broke open, the ground rumbled, the black water splashed...

The monk fell. Hard. As had happened when Ayan had hit him with the arrow. Yet this time, the monk did not get up. He writhed and shrieked with the silver still stuck in him, fighting a battle to the death he could not win. The water slowly stopped bubbling and the dark clouds parted even more, its acidic rain turning more watery with every drop. Those Djeorog cursed with undeath slowly shed their slimy dark hides with the falling rain, and looked up in confusion. Most of the cloaked old rangers scrambled themselves up as well. The grime washed off of the wood and the buildings and into the water, where the rain made pools of clarity appear instead of pitch-black cold smudge. A very, very tiny stripe of morning-light was seen beyond the mountains. Ayan hid his crossbow as he saw the monk being reduced to only black sludge, which seeped through the cracks in the wood and dripped into the waters. Only the silver dagger was left behind. Ayan called out in victory, and took his first steps on going down to the surface... Before he lost his footing, and took quite a rough tumble, splashing into the waters of Blacklake...

Only to be met with clear, cold water. Worry pounded through his head that he too would now crawl like a mindless corpse out of the water, but nothing of the sort was true. In fact, more faces rose up from the water after Ayan, all gasping for air as they climbed out. Ayan quickly pulled himself up and let himself fall onto the floorboards to catch his breath. Those in cloaks that did survive helped the people out of the water. The people of what once was Blacklake. Ayan shook the water out of his ears as the cloaked ones cheered, and soon after the townspeople cheered too. About as fast as Ayan could stand they pulled him along in a big circle of celebration, and applauded him and the old cloaked rangers. They were free. Blacklake was cleansed.

As tired as Ayan realised he was, he still laughed. He walked over to the silver dagger, looking for the old man. Chase and his goons stood with their backs against one of the houses, beholding the whole scene. They were a bit jealous, but what else would they be?

Ayan finally found the old man as soon as he heard "KRUUPKE!" somewhere. He pushed through the circle of cheering people, glad that he was so small, and looked at the two old friends holding each other in an embrace. "That was heartwarming and all," He said, as he approached the two and took the soaking wet cloak off his shoulders. "But I think I'm about done here." He held the cloak in front of him, looking at Kruupke to take it.

"No, kid. You take it. It fits you better anyway." Kruupke kindly declined. Ayan sighed, wringing out the wet thing before putting it back on his shoulders and shivering. "Fine, then. But at least take this." He held out the silver dagger this time, determined to give it back. The old man raised an eyebrow. "You sure you wouldn't want that? It's handy."

"I got around five daggers still at my friend's house, old man." Ayan laughed, once again gesturing for the old rangers to take the dagger. They raised their shoulders at each-other, and laughed back. "Silver, though. Could earn you some pretty coin." Ayan's face cleared up. He didn't think of that yet. He slid it in his pocket and grinned, holding out his hands.

The old rangers gave him a big hug instead. Unexpected, but still very welcome. The smell of early morning was strong here, as slowly, more light peeked through.

"I've got to go, though." Ayan said as he let go of the hug, this time being very careful to not fall off the edge and land in the water again. He turned around as the people of Blacklake called for him.

"Will you come back for a visit once we have rebuilt?" They asked.

"Only when you throw your evil monks in a different lake!" Ayan joked back as he left, waving at them.

A few days later, Ayan was geared up, well-fed, and back in the saddle. He had the dark-green cloak with the silver dagger through it firm around his shoulders as he and Bayo drove off through the ven-lands of Phantasia, towards their next adventure, wherever it might appear. He couldn't wait to tell his friends what had happened.


End file.
